


(Not) Just a Fish

by Knitwritezombie (Missa_G)



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clint Needs a Hug, Coping, Gen, death of pet, indistinct past relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-12
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-19 01:49:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1450906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missa_G/pseuds/Knitwritezombie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint has a fish. The fish dies. Tony's an ass. Tony makes it better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Not) Just a Fish

**Author's Note:**

> from this kink meme prompt (http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/18271.html?thread=42491999#t42491999): Any has a fish. Certain fish can live a great deal of time with proper care (such as goldfish). Any knows the fish doesn't really love him/her but Any loves it nonetheless. Any has it for years. Fish dies. Any is quite sad about it. People are kind of assholes about it. "It's just a fish!"
> 
> I ended up with feels.

Clint had a morning routine. He got up, stumbled to the ancient coffee maker that he hadn’t let Tony replace and switched it on, relieved himself, and fed his fish the special pellets he had on auto-refill from an online retailer so that he wouldn’t run out if he disappeared on a multi-week op and had a junior agent checking in every day. The he’d go for a run, check his email and messages over breakfast, and do whatever training was on his schedule for the day if he wasn’t required to help the team save the world.

The fish had been a gift from Phil early on in their working partnership. Somehow, Clint had let slip that, for the first time in his life, since joining SHIELD, he had a permanent home. He had mentioned planning a trip to a thrift store to find something to decorate with, since his only belongings besides a few articles of clothing were a battered leather jacket, his boots, his first bow, and a couple of tattered paperback books. 

Phil (he’d still been Coulson, then) had shown up at Clint’s quarters on base a couple of days later with a couple of junior agents, a 40 gallon fish tank, and a small stack of papers that had been carefully bound together with care instructions for the fish Phil carried in a small plastic bag. They had spent that afternoon setting everything up after poring over the instructions Phil had printed, and Clint had grown comfortable having something back in his quarters to return to, even if it was something that would likely never acknowledge his presence.

The slight light given off by the tank heater was also welcomed as a night light, but Clint wouldn’t admit that to anyone under pain of torture. 

Watching the fish swim in lazy circles amid the drifting plants was calming, and often, when he had nothing better to do, Clint found himself mesmerized, and finding a type of calm serenity he often only found when using his bow. There had been many times when he’d considered adding to his tank, but for some reason, he’d never really gotten around to it. His large tank had the one occupant, and had done for a surprising twelve years.

Even Clint was shocked he’d managed to keep another living creature alive that long.

He stumbled through his morning routine that Wednesday, getting the coffee started before seeking out the bathroom, and making his way to the tank while trying to remember what was on his agenda. He knew he had a performance review coming up, and Natasha’s “birthday” was just around the corner, so he needed to go shopping and...

“Aw, fish, no,” Clint said sadly to himself as he watched the lifeless body of his fish float at the top of the tank. The ache in his chest that had finally, after months, begun to fade into something tolerable, returned with a sharp pang, and Clint felt his breath catch. “Damn.” He tried to ignore the choked sound his voice made. “JARVIS?” he asked after clearing his throat.

“Master Barton,” the AI acknowledged. 

“Are there any city regulations on disposing of deceased pet fish?” he asked, reaching for the net next to the tank.

There was a slight pause as JARVIS searched. “No. However, if I may make a suggestion?”

“Shoot.” Clint hooked the stepstool with his foot and dragged it over so he could access the top of the tank.

“Sir has a garden on the roof which would benefit from the fertilization the remains could provide. It may be more appropriate than the traditional method.”

“Which is?” Clint asked curiously.

There was another pause, which had Clint glancing up curiously. “JARVIS?”

“The most common method of disposal is by flushing down a toilet,” the AI responded, and Clint swore there was a note of careful patience in the voice.

“Yeah, okay,” Clint acknowledged. “Can you contact the appropriate person and find out what they need me to do and forward instructions to my tablet?” he asked.

“Of course, Master Clint.”

The form of address, which normally made Clint smile at the absurdity, just fell flat. “Thanks, JARVIS.” He paused as he stepped up to the top of the tank. “JARVIS?”

The AI bleeped, but did not vocally respond.

“Have—did—is there---“ Clint paused. “You have archived footage, yes?”

“Indeed,” JARVIS responded. 

“Is there footage of my tank saved on the server?” he asked in a whisper. He wasn’t sure what prompted him to ask, but he had a feeling that now that it was gone, it was going to want that sense of calm that came when he zoned out in front of the tank.

“Yes, Master Clint.” The reply was almost instantaneous. “Footage can be replayed on multiple surfaces within your quarters at your request.”

Clint cleared his throat again. “Thanks, JARVIS.”

“You’re welcome, Master Clint. Sir’s head of landscaping welcomes your contribution and has sent a courier up to retrieve the remains. He will be here in 2.234 minutes.”

“Okay,” Clint acknowledged. JARVIS fell quiet as Clint went about the semi-gruesome task. He propped the net in the corner once he’d caught the remains of the fish, and went back to the kitchen for a plastic bag. He’d just wrapped everything up and dried his hands when the door to his quarters chimed.

The kid at his door couldn’t have been more than 18 and looked completely spooked at being on the residential level. “Uhm, hi, I’m supposed to” the kid stammered.

“Yeah, here,” Clint said, handing over the paper bag that he’d used to conceal the plastic within. “Thanks.”

“Oh. Uh. Sure. Have a good day.” The kid looked at the bag in his hands, clearly puzzled, but turned toward the elevator to go back downstairs.

Clint closed the door and then leaned against it, closing his eyes, feeling suddenly exhausted and just wanting to go back to bed. He knew, on some level, that it was a bit ridiculous to feel this level of grief over a fish, but that fish had come to mean so much more to him than just a silly pet. It was the first mark of stability he’d ever had, a link to Phil, to know that someone cared about him enough to want to acknowledge that he was welcomed to stay, that he was valued and important to the organization, enough so that that he could invest in something that could make his place of residence a home, rather than just a place to bunk down between missions. 

That fish had meant he’d had a home for the first time since he was six years old.

**  
Though his heart wasn’t in it, Clint went through with the rest of his morning routine, though where he’d normally seek out company with one of the others in the communal kitchen for breakfast, he returned to his rooms and choked down a piece of toast, his appetite non-existent. 

At loose ends with nothing scheduled until late in the afternoon, Clint roamed the tower, eventually ending up in one of the gyms where Tony was boxing with Happy and Natasha was stretching on the mats nearby. He wasn’t really in the mood to deal with anyone and was thinking about moving past them to the tumbling equipment, thinking he could work himself into exhaustion and let his thoughts stop spinning for awhile, but Natasha saw him.

He was kidding himself; she’d probably known he was there from the moment he’d walked in.

Clint acquiesced to her silent question and joined her in her warm up, flowing through the yoga poses without conscious thought. It helped, though, and he felt his mind settle, and he was (mostly) prepared when Natasha shifted out of practice mode into sparring, falling back into a defensive crouch and managing to block her first couple of strikes.

It only took a few short minutes for his focus to turn fully to the fight. However, he was still slow, sluggish to respond, and found himself on the mat more often than he’d been anytime in the last several years. He was tired, drained from thinking, and it was seeping into his physical movements.

“Hey,” Natasha said, elbowing him (not so gently) in the side after she helped him up. _Again._ “You okay? You’re not all here today, and Steve said you didn’t make it to breakfast.”

Clint shrugged. “Fish died.” He had aimed for a casual tone, but he was pretty sure he’d failed; he should have known after nearly a decade to not hide anything from his partner. 

Natasha’s gaze softened slightly, but before she could respond, Tony butted in from where he was watching, leaning against the wall of the gym, towel draped around his neck.

“Wait. Your fish died?” Tony asked, a bite of snark in his tone. “This has you letting her kick your ass more than normal?”

Clint shrugged again, but couldn’t meet Tony’s eyes. He knew it was silly; he hadn’t lost a real companion, not like a cat or a dog. His fish probably hadn’t even known Clint had existed. But it still hurt, just one more little piece of grief that lodged behind his breastbone where he carried his sadness at Phil’s loss. One more loss in a long list of them. One more mark that everything could be temporary.

“Jesus, Barton, it’s just a fish,” Tony said.

“Stark,” Tasha warned.

“He’s right, Tasha. It’s just a fish. I’m gonna go hit the range,” he said, wanting nothing more than to be alone with the renewed surge of grief. 

**  
Natasha found him later, sitting on the floor of his dark apartment, leaning against the sofa. She didn’t say anything as she settled down next to him, shifting so that some of her weight was resting against his side. They sat in silence for several long minutes until Clint finally spoke. 

“It wasn’t just the fish,” he said quietly.

Natasha took one of his hands in hers but said nothing.

“It was just one more thing, y’know?” he asked rhetorically. “I feel like I was finally starting to accept Phil’s death, that I wasn’t thinking about it every minute. It just made it all fresh again.” He tilted his head slightly to rest against hers and sighed. “Sometimes,” he whispered, “it feels like everything I touch is destined to leave me behind.”

Natasha doesn’t offer him platitudes or empty assurances; she’s far too pragmatic for that. Instead, she sits with him for another few minutes before she releases his hand, smacks him on the back of the head, and tells him to go make them some tea like a civilized person.

Clint’s not stupid, so he does what he’s told. When he returns a few minutes later with tea and a packet of cookies, he finds Natasha curled up in a corner of his sofa.

He hands her a mug and sits next to her, and she curls up against his side. “Coulson gave you a home,” Natasha said into the quiet. “The same way you did for me. You know, I still have that ugly-ass scratchy blanket you got me,” she confessed. 

Clint shrugged one shoulder. “You didn’t seem like a pet person,” he responded. She had needed a home as much as he had when he’d brought her in. He’d seen the afghan and bought in on impulse, and he knew for a fact it was on the couch in her rooms and it wasn’t nearly as scratchy as she played it up to be.

“I’m sorry your fish died,” she said.

“Thanks,” Clint answered, staring down into his tea. 

“You still have a home, though, you know,” Natasha said quietly. “I mean, the landlord is kind of insensitive assholes sometimes, but you know he’s not going to kick you out any time soon.”

Clint sighed. “I know. It was just the symbolism. It was something I couldn’t pack up and take with me if things went to shit. It meant that I belonged.”

“You still belong, idiot,” she said fondly. “But I think I know what you mean.”

“Master Clint, Miss Romanoff, Sir requires your presence in the common room,” JARVIS announced.

“What did he blow up this time?” Natasha asked as they rose, leaving their mugs on the coffee table.

“I have logged no explosions on the premises in the last 16.48 hours,” JARVIS responded dryly.

“Well that’s comforting,” Clint snarked as they made their way to the elevator.

They found Tony standing near a large box, looking cagey. “Where’s everyone else?” Natasha asked.

“Hm? Oh, no, I just wanted you two,” Tony said, idly tapping his fingers against the arc reactor. “Look, Barton, I’m sorry about earlier,” he explained. “I didn’t – well, let’s say I have a better understanding of the situation now.”

Clint glanced at Natasha who just stared back blandly. “Oo-kay. Apology accepted. Good talk, see you-“

“Wait,” Tony said as Clint turned on his heel. “uhm. Here.” He nudged the box toward Clint.

Clint looked at Tony, confused, then at the box when he heard scratching from inside. “What the hell, Stark?”

“Open the damn box, Barton,” Tony said with a sigh.

Clint crouched down next to the box, lifting the flaps, and then froze. “Tony…”

“Look, I know I can’t really buy my way out of everything,” the billionaire said quickly. “And I know I can’t replace what that fish meant to you. But, I thought, maybe a new symbol, and something a little more interactive might be your style.”

As Tony spoke, a bull dog puppy with a purple ribbon around its neck poked its head out of the box. Clint watched as it sniffed the air carefully, then stretched itself toward Clint, nearly tipping itself out of the box in its effort. Clint lifted the dog out of the box, unable to help the burble of laughter that erupted as the animal went straight for his face, licking his cheek.

“Care and feeding instructions have been sent to your tablet,” Tony explained as he crouched down next to them. Clint had slid down to sit on the floor and the puppy crawled over him eagerly. “English Bulldogs apparently make great apartment pets, and we can set it up so the bots can feed, water, and exercise him when you’re out in the field,” he said, reaching out to scratch behind the dog’s ears.

“Him?” Clint asked.

Tony nodded, and Clint heard the click of Natasha’s phone as she took a picture, probably to use as blackmail material. “He’s neutered and from a rescued litter. And, y’know, if he wants to roam the tower, I’m sure none of the rest of us would mind. But he’s yours.”

“Thanks, Tony,” Clint said, smiling softly as the puppy rolled over on Clint’s lap, presenting his belly to be scratched. “Really.” He looked up and offered the billionaire a sincere smile.

“What’re you going to call him?” Natasha asked, kneeling next to them and reaching out to pet the puppy as well.

“I’m thinking about calling him ‘Phish,’” Clint answered, feeling the knot of grief in his chest loosen just a little.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr: knitwritezombie.tumblr.com


End file.
